CHAPTER XVIII
THE COST OF VICTORY
I led Karl into one of the other sitting-rooms.
"I am going to make an appeal to your generosity," I said.
"What has happened? Who was outside the house? What is the meaning ofall the mystery? I was thinking myself mad up there and came down tosee."
"It is good that you care so much. Two days ago you would have given ashrug of your shoulders, a toss of the head, a lift of the eyebrows,and with an easy smiling 'It doesn't matter,' have left any one else todo the thinking. Don't let your cigar go out; it probably helps you."He was holding a long black cigar such as he had smoked so furiously inthe carriage.
"You have given me plenty to make me think," he answered. "But whathas happened?"
"I told you--I am going to appeal to your generosity. Not to ask me totell you everything, but just to accept my explanation."
"I was afraid it was something else."
"What?" I asked not thinking, and so falling into the trap.
"That you should keep what you have not yet returned; that little linkwith the past--the ribbon favour, Christabel." His eyes were verygentle as he spoke my name.
For a moment I wavered, lowering my head; then taking courage to facewhat must be faced by us both, I lifted my eyes and, firm in both lookand voice, answered him--"It must not be a link. It is no more than arelic. There can be no connecting link with that old time for us two."
"You think that? Perhaps; but I don't;" and he shook his head. "Youare very strong, Christabel; but not strong enough for that--not strongenough to change me, at least. It's the only thing in life I careabout."
"It must be put aside," I declared.
"Your part is of course for you to decide; but mine is for me. Youcannot take my share from me."
"I shall prevail with you. I must. You are going to take yourrightful position as your father's heir. You know what is to happenhere when the Patriots gain their end. You know what will be expectedof you then; and you have to think, not of yourself, not of any merepersonal desire, any smaller end, but of your country."
"'Mere personal desire,'" he repeated. "Is that how you read it?"
"It is what your countrymen would call it--your countrymen, who willlook to you to do your duty. They must not look in vain."
He made no reply but sat smoking, his brow gathered in deep furrows ofthought.
"There are two Count Karls," I continued. "The one who years ago liveda life which made men proud of him, and filled them with trust andconfidence in his power and vigour. The real Karl; the man who at thecall of patriotism and the counsel of a friend, was even strong enoughto let himself be condemned in the eyes of the girl he cared for ascowardly, selfish, and false. That was the real Karl. The other wasbut an ignoble man; a purposeless parody of the real and true; and he,I thank God, exists no longer. But the noble Karl has to face againto-day the same hard problem he solved so roughly and crudely yearsago. With this difference however--the girl knows all now and willhelp him."
The trouble in his face deepened and he shook his head slowly. "No,no. I cannot."
"Yes, you must. _We_ must, Karl. We don't make our lives; we do butlive them."
"I cannot," he repeated, heaving a great sigh.
"We have no choice. I have seen this throughout. If I have helpedyou--as I love to think I have--to tear aside the coils that werebinding you fast to the wheels of ruin, I have done it in fullknowledge of all this; of what must be; of what neither you nor I norwe two together, if we were true to ourselves, could possibly prevent.You must not, you shall not be false to your duty and your country."
"No, no. It is too much to ask."
"In so far as I have helped you, I have a right to ask you. I pressthat right with all my power."
His face changed and with a glance of resistance, he answered, quickly:
"It may be easy since you do not care----"
"Karl!" The cry stopped him. His look changed again, and he tossed uphis hands and drooped his head.
"I am ashamed," he murmured. "Heaven knows, I have not your strength."
"Don't make that mistake. This is as hard for me as it can be for you.Harder perhaps, for to a woman her heart thoughts must be always morethan to a man. Our lives are so much emptier. We need have noconcealment now. When I first met you here, I thought--so little doesa woman know her heart--that the old feeling was dead; that thelong-nurtured resentment of the past had killed it. I was hot againstyou when you did not recognize me, and burned with indignation. But Idid not know."
"Nor yesterday, when we spoke together?" he broke in, eagerly.
"Ah, yes, I began to know then, and to be glad. Not glad with the joyof expected happiness; but so glad that I had been wrong in the yearsbetween. But when, to-night, I found this"--and I took out the littleribbon favour--"then indeed I knew all."
He held out his hand. "Give it me."
"Better not, far better not. We must be strong; and this can only be asource of weakness. We will face together that which must be faced anddestroy it."
"No," he cried, earnestly. "No. It is mine. I will keep it. Give itme."
"Of what use is it? A mere piece of tawdry faded ribbon when I havegiven you all my heart."
"Christabel!" His outstretched hand fell as he spoke.
I crossed to his chair and stood by him and laid my hand on hisshoulder, looking down into his face. "You will be strong, Karl. Itrust you to destroy it;" and I held it out to him.
Instead of taking it he seized my hand and pressed his lips upon it."If I lose you, I shall go back to what I was," he said, holding myhand and looking up.
I shook my head and smiled. "I have not so little faith in you asthat. I, like your countrymen, appeal to the real Karl, and I know weshall not appeal in vain. You have a noble part to play in life, andyou will play it nobly as becomes you--and I shall watch you play it,proud to think that I have helped you to be worthy of it and ofyourself."
"My God, I cannot give you up," he cried, desperately. "I cannot goback to the lonesomeness of those years. You don't know what they havebeen to me--desolate, empty, mournful, purposeless. If you bring themback to me after this, I--Christabel, you must not."
"Is that weakness worthy of you or of me?"
"You don't understand. It was bad enough and black enough when my onlythought was that I had had your love and had wantonly killed it; thatwas purgatory. But now, meaning to do well, what have you done butill? You have shown me happiness, only to shut the gates upon me anddrive me out into the black misery again. If you love me, you willnever do that--you could not."
I went back to my seat. "You make this very hard for me--for us both.So much harder than it need be. You had better go now, and leave thiswhere it is. Yet I had hoped."
"Hoped what?"
"That I could help you to be strong enough to do the only right thing.And you kill my hope by thinking only of yourself. I would have hadyou act from the higher motive; but if you will not, the fault is notmine. You force me to say what must be said. Decide as you will, itcan make no difference. I can never be to you what you wish: and what,were things other than they are, I would wish with my whole heart. ButI could have been your friend--and that you make impossible."
"Christabel!"
"I mean it. I could never be the friend of a man who would set a womanabove his duty and his honour, even though that woman were myself. Ithought so much better of you."
"You are hard and unjust to me," he cried.
"No no. I am hard to myself, but only just to you. But let it be asyou will."
He rose and began to pace the room.
"You had better go. I have failed with you; and failing, must lose allI had wished to win--my own purpose and all. I shall not see youagain. You have made it impossible. I shall leave Pesthto-morrow--with all my efforts failed."
"No," he burst out almost violently, stopping close and fa
cing me. "Ifyou go, you know how it will be with me."
I looked at him firmly, and after a pause said in a deliberate tone:"If you cannot rise to the higher life, what matters to your country ifyou fall to the lower. And as with your country, so with me."
The words cut him till he winced as in pain, and dropped again into aseat.
"Can you say that--to me?"
My heart was wrung at the sight of his anguish, but I would not let himsee it. "You had better go--please," I said; for the silence becameintolerable.
He paid no heed to my words, but sat on and on in this attitude ofdejected despair; and when after the long silence he looked up his facewas grey with the struggle, so that I dared not look into his eyes forfear my resolve would be broken and I should yield. For firm as mywords had been, my heart was all aching and pleading to do what hewished.
"You need not turn your eyes from me, Christabel," he said, a littleunsteady in tone. "You have beaten me. It shall be as you say;although I would rather die than go back to the desert. Pray God thevictory will cost you less than it costs me to yield."
I think he could read in my eyes what the cost was likely to be to me:I am sure my heart was speaking through them in the moment while mytongue could find no words.
"I knew you would be true to yourself," I said at length.
"No, anything but that. No credit to me. I only yield because toresist means your abandonment of what you hold so dear. That must notbe in any case."
"Whatever the reason, your decision is right. Your country----"
"No, that has nothing to do with it. Less than nothing, indeed. Youand I must at least see the truth clearly. I have no sympathy with thePatriot movement. I have never had. That has always been the cause ofdispute with my family. I hold it all to be a huge mistake and folly.I am doing this for you--and you only. Now, more than ever, I shallhate the cause; for it has helped to rob me of--you."
I had no answer to that--indeed, what answer could I have made exceptto pour out some of the feelings that filled my heart, and thus havemade things harder for us both.
He sat a moment, as if waiting for me to speak, then sighed wearily androse. "I had better go now, as you said. I suppose now you will letme see you again."
"Of course. To-morrow. Meanwhile, until I do see you, I wish you togo somewhere and not show yourself."
"All places are alike to me--again," he replied, with drearyindifference.
"I wish you to go and stay with Colonel Katona, and stay in his houseuntil I send to you."
"Colonel Katona! Is he here? Why?"
"His daughter is my friend. It was he who came to the window to-night,seeking news of her."
"Has he a daughter? I didn't know. But why look for her here of allplaces in the world?"
"I will tell you the story another time. It is mixed up now with mine.But I do not wish you to speak of her to her father."
"She is nothing to me; I can promise that easily enough."
I touched the bell, and told James Perry to have the carriage broughtat once to the door.
"When shall I see you? To-morrow, really? You know the danger."
"That danger is past," I said, firmly.
"You have more confidence in me than I have."
"After to-night I shall never falter in that confidence."
"I thank you for that, Christabel, I shall try;" and he smiled. As hewithdrew his eyes they fell upon the wisp of ribbon lying on the table.He picked it up, gazed at it, then raised it to his lips and laid itagain on the table. "You still wish this to be destroyed?" he asked,keeping his gaze averted.
Simple as were the words and the act, I could not find an answer on theinstant. "It is best so," I murmured at length.
"Very well," and he turned away. "You are always right. Of course,it's only--folly and--and weakness."
We heard the carriage drive to the door then. He started and held outhis hand; then as if with a sudden thought, he said; "I had forgottenabout you. I am so self-wrapped, you see. What are you going to do?"
"I shall stay here to-night."
"Is it safe, do you think?"
"I have my servants here."
"Besides, you are so fearless yourself. Good-night. It is all sostrange. I feel as if I should never see you again. And I suppose ina way that's true. As things are to be in the future, it won't be you,in one sense. You said there were two Karls--and now there are to betwo Christabels. That sounds like a bad joke, but it feels much morelike a sorry tragedy;" and he sighed heavily.
He went out then to the carriage, and I to fetch Colonel Katona to joinhim.
When they had driven off I went back into the room and sat down feelingdreary and anguish-sick. I was tired out, I told myself; but no bodilyweariness could account for the ache in my heart. I had succeeded inall far beyond my expectations; had won my victory with Karl; I wasalmost within sight of the goal which had seemed impossible ofattainment only a few days before. I had every reason to rejoice andbe glad; and yet I laid my head on my arms on the table feeling moredesolate, sorrow-laden, and solitary than ever in all my life before.
My servant roused me.
"What is it, James?"
"Is there anything I can do for you, miss? I knocked five times beforeyou heard me. Can I get you something?"
"No, thank you, James. I am only tired and am going to bed. Stay upuntil your father comes back with the carriage. Then go to bedyourself, but let him sit up for the rest of the night. I shall sleepmore soundly if I know some one is watching. You must be up early, asI shall need you."
I yawned as if I were very sleepy--one has to keep one's end up, evenbefore one's servants--and bade him good-night. I was turning from theroom when my eye chanced on the ribbon favour which Karl had left lyingthere.
Fortunately James had left the room; for the sight of it struck allthought of pretence out of my mind. I was very silly; but it seemed inan instant to rouse a vivid living consciousness of all that I hadvoluntarily given up, and yet might have retained by a mere word.
I was only a girl then indeed; and the tears came rushing to my eyesand set the little ribbon dancing and quivering and trembling in mysight.
I dashed them away and, thrusting the little mocking token into mybosom, I ran out of the room as hurriedly as though I were rushing toescape from the sad thoughts of that other Christabel of whom Karl hadspoken.